What Remains of Heroes (5 page)

2

Another Exorcism

T
he dust made
Zandrachus Bale sneeze, and the sneeze stirred up more dust. The depths of the ancient library were rife with the stuff; a thick glaze coated every shelf, every table, and every book. Bale dragged his tongue upon his forefinger and then trailed the finger across the spine of his tome. The brown paste rendered looked quite revolting. He waggled the finger and flicked it toward the floor, recalling a scientific treatise postulating that dust was comprised largely of human parts. Hair, skin, and who knows what else.

Perhaps little bits of my sneezes
.

For a moment he studied the misshapen globule on the floor. The shadows of the flickering candlelight danced about it, making it seem almost alive, and all the more unsightly. Bale had a weak stomach, yet often found himself enraptured by the grotesque. Certain smells, sights and textures delighted him as much as they repelled. He thought for a moment of retrieving the pasty blob for further inspection, but then remembered he had a book to read.
Faultain’s Study of Anatomic Anomalies
. He’d left off with the chapter concerning superfluous teats. He rubbed away a dribble of snot from a nose he’d always felt to be several sizes too large, then settled in to read.

“Bale!” The voice echoed through the cavernous hall for long, irritating moments.

Bale shrunk low in his chair and drew the brown hood of his robes over his head of long, graying hair. He knew any attempt at disguise was ridiculous, for rare was the day he couldn’t be found in the library, dodging his duties in favor of studying old tomes on history, spellcraft, and minor perversions. Nevertheless, he resolved to ignore the summons and play the part of an insolent child as long as it suited him. He’d long grown weary of people and the mundane cycle of their days.

Of course, it wasn’t long before he was found. It was Prefect Kreer, as always. The tall man, at least three decades Bale’s senior, preened over him, jaundiced eyes staring down the long drip of his nose. “Acolyte Bale,” he said tiredly. “A member of His Majesty’s staff has requested an exorcism.”

“You mean
another
exorcism.”

Prefect Kreer raised a bushy brow. “The Faith has become an object of mockery to you, has it?”

Oh, not the Faith. Just those who practice it
. “Of course not, Prefect. It’s just the High King and the residents of the castle seem to have grown overly zealous of late.”

“Our Sanctum has served the Crown for centuries, even in matters of seemingly small import. The Faith instructs that the High King carries the blessing of the goddess Illienne, and it is this blessing that ensures the well-being of Rune. Are you refusing an act of service to our divinely blessed High King? To Rune?”

“Of course not, Prefect. I live to serve.” He bowed his head low, his big nose pressing upon a diagram of a third nipple in his book. He had to admire the artist’s hand.
All in the name of science, of course
.

“Your tone is one of mockery, Acolyte Bale, and the Sanctum does not look kindly upon jesters or blasphemers. Do you have further complaints? Something I should address with the Dictorian?”

Bale straightened in his chair, doing his best to appear reverent. Crossing Prefect Kreer would only mean assignments to foolish tasks, and upsetting the head of their order, Dictorian Theal, could mean expulsion.

I’d never survive outside this place
.

“Nothing at all, Prefect,” he said. “I apologize for any perceived insolence. May I inquire as to the nature of the possession?”

“One of the scullery maids fears the castle’s kitchens are haunted by a demon. Her description leads me to believe the interloper is a rodent.” His purple lips wrinkled to a smile. “But one can never be certain.”

Torches lit the stonework corridors of the Abbey, and windows were small and infrequent. The design made for poor ventilation and a haze of foul smoke, but one of the Sanctum’s precepts was that the less distracted one was with the outside world, the more focused one’s pursuit of truth could be. It was one of the few precepts Bale had never found cause to question. The outside world seemed a frightening place full of violence, hardship, and, worst of all, people.

It was a tedious walk from the library to the apothecary, with the latter situated deep within the Abbey’s halls. Mishaps with reagents and potions were not infrequent, so the location had been chosen to prevent catastrophe. A wise choice, Bane reckoned, but it meant passing by several of his brethren in the hallways and exchanging feigned pleasantries.
How I hate
people
.

After a winding route through the Abbey’s maze-like passageways, he arrived at the counter of the apothecary. The withered, bespectacled acolyte who manned the counter seemed a kindred spirit, in that he avoided eye contact and discussion as adeptly as Bale. Bale had to clear his throat three times before the alchemist removed his attention from an array of glass globes full of colored liquids and swirling fumes.

“Rat poison and drimroot,” Bale said simply, wondering if he’d said too much for the alchemist’s liking.

The alchemist grumbled something Bale took to be an acknowledgement and trudged up a ladder servicing the tall shelving behind him. Shelf after shelf bowed from the weight of decanters, vials, powders, casks and dried herbs. The alchemist grabbed a small, brownish sprig then snatched a jar from one of the upper shelves. He descended the ladder, handed Bale the dry sprig then meted out a few granules from the jar into a pouch.

Bale gave a curt nod and left. It occurred to him that he’d made dozens of trips to the apothecary over the years, but they’d never exchanged words beyond the requested concoctions and had never traded names. It seemed a perfect relationship.

He retrieved his traveling cloak, staff, and a book from his cramped quarters and departed. It wasn’t until he’d arrived at the Abbey’s outer door that he noticed the book’s title,
On Digestion and the Production of Feces
. Hardly the sort of tome to contain the sacred commands of an exorcism, but chances were the scullery maid wasn’t the literate sort. A smile slipped across his weary face.

A light spring rain stirred up the scent of the sea, yielding a smell much like days-old fish. Bale rubbed away drips of rain from his large nose and inhaled deeply. He found the odor not altogether unpleasant, but loathed the notion of enduring the outside world at midday. The streets were sure to be crowded in spite of the weather. Yet, he had a job to do, so he set out upon the wet street with plodding steps.

The Abbey stood in Ironmoor’s Nearer Ward, a collection of time-worn structures. These stone shrines had served as the homes of the Rune’s great seats of power for time immemorial. The Abbey of the Ancient Sanctum of Illienne, the Grand Court of the Magistrate Examiners, and the House of Minor Laws.

Old tombs jealously guarding treasures disregarded long ago by the rest of the world.

He rounded a corner and spotted the hulking form of the High King’s castle, the Bastion. Atop its tall tower loomed the gold statue of a dragon. Bale figured on a clear afternoon he’d be walking now in the cast of its shadow. But not today, when the city appeared a ruin of gray stones cowering beneath a gray sky.

The Bastion was near yet distant. Deralor the Mad, seventeenth High King of Rune, had ordered the construction of several walls surrounding the Bastion in concentric circles, with the breaches alternating between north and south on each circuitous wall. Bale grunted his frustration, knowing that although a stronger man could likely hit the castle with a thrown stone, it’d take him quite some time to walk there. The rain was cold and miserable.

The streets were crowded by all manner of official, emissary, bureaucrat, and magistrate. The sort of folk unmoved by the rain, chins held high, cloaks of oiled leather sparkling with inlaid jewels and voices booming with patent hubris. There was talk of imminent war with Arranan and their mysterious Spider King, the interminable trade dispute with the Merchant-Lords of Khaldisia, and rumors of discontent among Rune’s eight thanes. Each boldly proclaimed solutions, only to be shouted down by others in their company. Bale shambled between the knots of people, trying hard to ignore the jostles from their gesticulations.

Even Bale’s fellow acolytes seemed like pleasant company when measured against this ilk. He passed one richly dressed magistrate regaling his listeners with a bad joke about the sexual proclivities of High King Deragol and the true reason he’d not yet sired an heir. Bale roared with mock laughter, long and loud, and enough to draw the magistrate’s reprobating glare. Bale widened his eyes, stuck out his tongue, and then quickened his pace.

The crowds waned as Bale neared the Bastion, the bickering officials giving way to red-sashed guardsmen and hooded servants. The guards at the gates knew him on sight, he was sure, but waited for him to present his sealed warrant before parting their crossed halberds. They didn’t question his errand, but Bale could hear their whispered derision. They laughed about the castle being haunted, as there was no other reason an old kook from the Abbey would visit with such frequency.

“Spooker,” one called after him. Bale continued walking, having heard the insult many times before.

He passed through the massive portcullis of the last gate and entered the Bastion’s grounds. Even to Bale it was an impressive sight. Meticulously trimmed pathways meandered through a decadent garden containing flowers of every shape and hue. In spite of the heavy clouds overhead, the young blossoms of spring were brilliant.

Beyond the gardens stood the Bastion, the massive castle of Rune’s High King. The castle proper was an angular bulwark of stone, all stout walls and battlements the color of the sea stirred by storm. Somewhere in its depths was the Godswell, said to be the very place at which the gods Yrghul and Illienne descended into oblivion many years ago. The Old Faith instructed that the final battle of the War of Fates had been fought upon this very ground.

At the Bastion’s center rose the Tower of Lords, an incredible structure of sculpted masonry and one of Rune’s true wonders. It stretched more than three hundred feet from its base to the great golden dragon at its peak. Gilded reliefs covered its outer wall, depicting the High Kings and their triumphs. There was Deranthol, the first High King, standing with Rune’s greatest heroes, the immortal Seven Sentinels, to receive the Blessing of Illienne the Light Eternal. Next a relief depicting them with swords aflame, striking down Illienne’s old foe, the dark god Yrghul the Lord of Nightmares, then the two gods descending to oblivion. There was Derand, son of Deranthol, with Rune’s eight lesser kings—or ‘thanes’ as they were known—kneeling before him and pledging fealty. Then Derganfel the Purer, riding with the thanes and battling the Sentinels as they tried to wrest the throne from him, and another portraying the Sentinels’ banishment. Upward the reliefs went about the tower, a visual history of ten centuries. The last, just more than two-thirds the distance to the tower’s crest, depicted a stylized King Deragol standing ever vigilant over a peaceful land.